


Durable

by notjustmom



Series: Words, Words, Words [47]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst With A Side of Angst, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 17:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5342918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>durable: adjective: d(y)o͝orəb(ə)l: able to withstand wear, pressure, or damage; hard-wearing.</p><p>Middle English (in the sense ‘steadfast’): via Old French from Latin durabilis, from durare ‘to last’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Durable

**Author's Note:**

> This is for all the people in the States and elsewhere in the world struggling with violence. Not making any political statements here, just a plea for some peace.

Most would consider John the more durable of the two, despite the war injury and the days when the limp would kick in, but on the nights when the ghosts visited, Sherlock was the rock their partnership was built upon.

He had learned to watch John carefully on anniversaries; the day he was shot in Afghanistan, the eve of the Fall; there were tells, tiny stress fractures that only Sherlock knew. The worry lines deepened, his knee twitched, his eyes seemed elsewhere, lost in rewind. Those nights, he made sure the Browning was locked away, the scotch out of reach, and the noxious experiments and body parts were nowhere to be found. 

"Indian or Thai?"

"Hmmmm?"

"Dinner - Indian, or Thai?"

"Not hungry."

"How about I order some dim sum?"

"Whatever."

On those nights, Sherlock would turn off the news, sit in front of John, untie his shoes, gently remove his socks, then rise to kneeling, as he unzipped...

"Not tonight, love."

"Shhhh. Let me-"

John would nod, and raise his hips enough to allow his lover to carefully slide his trousers and pants off. He would sigh as Sherlock nudged his arms up so he could peel the jumper from him. Sherlock would stand and offer John his hand, then lead them to their room, which was already darkened except for a candle, silent save for that one piece of music that settled John's nerves, and carefully help him to bed.

"I'm here."

"I know. I'm sorry-"

"No."

"I should be stronger-"

"Love, let me."

Sherlock would slowly disrobe, not as a seduction, rather as a way to admit his own weaknesses, his own scars and vulnerability, then climb into bed, and cover John's slightly trembling form with his own. His head would rest on John's chest, so he was surrounded by John's heartbeat, John's arms would wrap around his detective and they would begin to breathe  
together. As one. Then John would begin to tell a story, sometimes of a day of explosions and blood, other times, the day of his father's final departure. Tonight, it was the fifth anniversary of Sherlock's funeral. 

He had forgotten. They had never talked about it. John didn't once mention the day he thought he had put his best friend into the ground.

"I'm sorry. John-please forg-"

"You know I already have, love. It just hit me today, is all."

"Why?"

"I was watching you play in front of the window this afternoon and for a second, it seemed like I could see through you. Like you were just a memory, not really there-"

Sherlock raised his head and scooted upwards to stop the words with a kiss.

"I'm here," he whispered, as he wiped John's errant tears from his face.

John nodded as Sherlock ran his fingertips over his lips, through his hair, then held his face in his elegant hands. "I'm here."

He traced his lover's scar with feather touches, then placed a single kiss over John's heart. "I'm here."

John rolled Sherlock onto his back and studied his face. "The worst part about that day, is that I had never told you that I loved you."

"I knew, John, I always knew." He reached up to wrap his arms around his blogger and pulled them together; hips, chests, cocks melded as one, and for a moment neither breathed.

"God-" John sighed, as he began to move against the man beneath him. "I do, so much. Love you. Some days, it's almost too much for my heart."

"I know."

Together they found a rhythm of quiet murmurings until John arched his back with a deep, harsh cry.

"Let go, love, I have you. I'm here."

John collapsed next to Sherlock, entwining their fingers together and brought his hand to his lips. Then he wrapped himself around his detective, his ear against his heart.

"I know."


End file.
